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They don’t get to see it.
“Jaxson…”
I take her chin in my hand and lift her face. “Daddy.”
A dangerous game this Daddy/little girl thing. Because it’s not just to establish plausible deniability.
We both feed off it.
The sexual connection has nothing to do with like or dislike; it’s pure hormone and animalistic compatibility.
“W-hat if someone comes in?”
“This is my room,” I say. “My job isn’t just selling, it’s knowing the product, it’s having lived the life of someone who kills for a living. They know that. No one on this island would dare come in here. Not if they want to live.”
And because I’m betting the bug I found is still in here, I keep talking.
“I want you to understand that. You’re mine, little girl. I bought you for my pleasure. I own you until I’m done with you.”
“I want to be yours. I need it.”
My breath hitches. Here’s the thing with Dakota. I’m pretty fucking sure she’s picked up on my game. But she’s so innocent and acts her part so well, I really don’t know if she’s saying this to play along or if she means it.
Maybe it’s both.
That seems to fit.
And makes it more dangerous.
Which works because I’m a man who thrives on danger.
I’m discovering I’m also a man who thrives on her.
“Good. So no flirting. Not anymore. I saw how you wanted to flash everything to the men watching, how you wanted them to touch. I’ve tied you up to stop you from doing that.”
I bend close, suck on her lobe, then nibble it. Then I murmur my next words. “You can get free, Dakota. It’s a matter of pulling sharply to the sides with your hands and straight out with your legs. Only do that if you’re in danger. Understand?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
Fuck, she might well have wrapped her fingers around my cock with that word.
“If someone else tries to come in, get the fuck out of the chair.”
Her voice is a bare whisper, too. “How will I know your knock?”
“I won’t knock. And you’ll know.”
I kiss her, a soft, sweet, slow kiss, one that makes her writhe.
Then I straighten up and leave.
My first stop is her room. No one’s come in here since she ran away. The chair she shoved against the main door twists something inside me. I want to grab Smith by the collar and slam him against a wall, rip him a new one for not taking care of her and training her, for allowing her to be a helpless princess without any oversight at all. How the fuck could he have just neglected her?
I still have her cards and ID and the rest. She’s two months away from her twenty-first birthday, which really puts me in the creep category since I’m thirty-four. My cutoff is twenty-three.
Semantics, I guess, as I open and shut drawers, then go through her closet.
Imaginary lines in the fucking sand.
